


I want to believe (but maybe it's just the rum talking)

by matchka



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Bookstore AU, F/M, M/M, connie and sasha are the world's worst guinea pig parents, in which dana scully was everyone's sexual awakening but jean's, inspired by and written for amber because she's amazing, syw-verse, x-files drinking game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:33:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchka/pseuds/matchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday gift for the fabulous <a href="http://friedcheesemogu.tumblr.com">friedcheesemogu</a> - a fanfic for her fanfic, "Say You Will (Or That You Wish You Could)"</p><p>Jean has never watched X-Files. Connie and Sasha are appalled. Frankly, Marco is too. Luckily, it's X-Files night at Braus-Springer Towers - rum and fried chicken will be provided...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I want to believe (but maybe it's just the rum talking)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Friedcheesemogu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friedcheesemogu/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Say You Will (Or That You Wish You Could)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440358) by [Friedcheesemogu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friedcheesemogu/pseuds/Friedcheesemogu). 



> This gift is for [Amber](http://friedcheesemogu.tumblr.com), who makes my life better just by being in it. You are truly my knight of fish and onions, and there will forever be a place for you in my heart, and my palace Beyond the Wall. I am so grateful you sent me that random tumblr message that one day, and for all the messages that followed <3
> 
> If you haven't read "Say You Will (Or That You Wish You Could") - go! Get over there! Don't make me poke you with a stick. It's fabulous and funny and heartwarming and occasionally extremely painful, but mostly all of the former categories. And you'll love it. I'm utterly confident of that. Trust me on this.

Marco arrives for his shift with mere minutes to spare, having found himself caught up in a traffic jam so vast and epic in scale that he had momentarily considered the possibility that the apocalypse was coming, and he’d somehow missed the memo. By the time he stumbles out onto the shop floor, red-faced and mildly flustered - narrowly avoiding Levi and the warpath he’s allegedly blazing throughout the store, according to a recently-chastised Armin – he’s already inclined to call the whole day quits.

“Here.”

A cardboard cup magically appears beneath his chin. Attached to it is an arm, and attached to that is a cute, scowling guy with the kind of unselfconsciously ruffled hair which Marco knows he probably spent at least half an hour styling. He knows this because he’s spent countless mornings waiting patiently for the bathroom (and by ‘patiently’, he means ‘dancing desperately from foot to foot because his bladder is about to explode’) while Jean does, undoes and redoes his hair over and over.

“Figured you’d be caught in the traffic,” Jean says, quirking a small smile. Marco pops the plastic lid and gets a waft of earl grey latte and _that_ , he thinks, basking in the delicious-smelling warmth of it, is why he puts up with the hair, and the occasional tantrum and Jean’s inability to be in a room with other people and not piss at least one of them off. That and the mind-blowingly good sex. “I mean, don’t fall all over yourself to thank me or anything…”

He’s pretty sure nobody’s watching, but Levi has this uncanny ability to magically appear at the most inopportune moments – it’s as though the mere thought of breaking the rules spirits him into being, like some terrible demonic disciplinarian. It’s why Sasha calls him ‘the Prince of Darkness’. Marco presses a tiny, chaste kiss to the inner curve of Jean’s throat, just below the jaw, and the momentary look of panic in Jean’s eyes is worth risking Levi’s wrath. He almost drops his sticker-gun.

“Thank you,” Marco says, sincere. “This drink may actually have saved my life.”

“You get caught in traffic too?” Eren, apparently materialising out of thin air – has he been taking lessons from Levi? – strolls by with a brace of James Patterson paperbacks under each arm. He plonks them onto the counter. “I hear Hanji’s still out there somewhere. Levi’s foaming at the mouth, but look-” he indicates the store with a sweep of his arm. “It’s not like we’re heaving with customers right now. Hell, Armin’s so bored he’s actually alphabetising the kid’s fiction, and you know how futile a task _that_ is.”

From somewhere behind them comes a shrill, sudden sound, like a cat being strangled underwater. Jean spins on his heels, almost knocking the drink from Marco’s hands. “The hell is that?” he mutters, squinting out into the dark recesses of the store. “Is that the fire alarm?”

“Not unless it’s got laryngitis,” Eren says.

The sound grows gradually louder, increasing in pitch and volume until Marco actually _feels_ it vibrating down his spine. Jean is like an alarmed cat, looking this way and that way as though attack is imminent. And then, inevitably, Sasha and Connie burst out from behind the self-help books, ‘wee-wooing’ inanely through their hands. Their grins are bordering on the maniacal.

“If that’s an idiot warning, there’s really no need,” Jean says. “We’re all well aware of your special status.”

“Chill, grump-bucket,” Sasha grins, as Connie ‘wee-woos’ on beside her. “Tonight is X-Files night and we’re getting into the spirit early.”

“Can’t you do it quietly?” Jean mutters, pained, and Marco nudges him with an elbow. He sighs, melodramatic, but it’s all in good spirit. Mostly. “If Levi catches you howling like cats in heat he’s liable to punish all of us.”

“He’s right,” Eren says, gathering his James Pattersons back up. He heads for the other end of the store, talking over his shoulder as he departs. “He’s in an especially foul mood today. I’d advise total silence within a five-metre radius, to be honest. A complete lack of eye contact too, while you’re at it.”

“That’s like, Defcon 5-level pissed,” Connie says, shoving his hands in his pockets. In the sudden absence of wee-wooing there’s a strange ringing in Marco’s ears, and he wonders if Sasha and Connie have done him some kind of irreparable damage. Surely it was just a matter of time. “Trust him to harsh my buzz.”

“Is X-Files night a regular thing at Braus-Springer Towers?” Marco asks. He puts his drink on the counter and scoops up a pile of unpriced reference books; it’ll make himself look busy should Levi happen by. “I don’t think I’ve heard you mention it before.”

“I’ve definitely never heard them make that noise before,” Jean says, pressing a finger to his ear.

“It’s a regular thing as of today,” Sasha says. “Connie was going through the attic and found the box set in with all his Transformers toys. So, every Wednesday night is going to be X-Files night from now on. We get fried chicken…”

“…actual chicken, not bits of people,” Connie adds, which to everyone but Marco seems a bizarre non-sequitur.

“And for dessert, nonfat Tofutti rice dreamsicles?” Marco asks, grin widening when Jean shoots him a stony look: half ‘don’t encourage them, dear god’ and half ‘jesus you’re such a nerd’.

Connie and Sasha exchange horrified glances. “Gross. No, dessert is lemon cheesecake.”

“That’s…not really in keeping with the theme.”

“Well, it doesn’t _all_ have to be themed,” Sasha says, airy. “Anyway, we’re mostly watching it because Connie’s got a planet-sized crush on Scully and he thinks I won’t notice him ogling.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Jean asks. He’s still wielding the sticker-gun, finger on the trigger, like he’s ready to leap into stickering action at any moment. Only Jean – standing in that insouciant, almost boneless way of his – can make idly holding a pricing gun look sexy. It must be the scowl, Marco thinks, letting his eyes travel the length of him; the scowl, or maybe the way his trousers ever-so-slightly hug the curve of his ass. Maybe both. Jean must notice him staring because his cheeks redden visibly, but he makes a valiant attempt to stay with the conversation.

“Hell no.” Sasha waves a dismissive hand. “It’s Scully, right? I’m pretty sure 90% of people our age can trace their sexual awakening back to an episode of the X-Files. I sure as hell can.”

“I think mine was probably something to do with Xena Warrior Princess,” Marco says. “But Scully was definitely up there.”

“Cammy from Street Fighter,” Connie says, a little dreamily. And then, when they all turn to face him, eyebrows uniformly raised, he blurts “hey, fuck you all, her butt was animated to perfection.” Sasha ruffles his hair affectionately, and he leans into the gesture like a happy cat.

“Seven of Nine,” Jean volunteers. “Who is this Scully chick anyway?”

“You’ve never seen X-Files?” Marco asks, a little surprised.

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Nope.”

“Not even once?”

“No,” Jean says, a little irritably. “I was too busy playing outside like a normal person.”

“Oh Jean,” Marco says, shaking his head in bemused wonderment. “You’ve lived such a sheltered existence.”

“This is completely unacceptable,” Sasha says, in mock-horror. “Jean, Marco, 7pm at Braus-Springer Towers. No arguments. Fried chicken will be provided.”

“Wait, no…” Jean’s ineffectual protest is cut off by a triumphant chorus of ‘wee-wooing’ as Connie and Sasha disappear once again into the black hole that constitutes the Self Help & Psychology section. Jean is left stunned and a little horrified, staring at Marco in a way that suggests this is _his_ fault for not protesting vociferously enough. For not protesting _at all_. He turns to Marco, pointing the pricing gun at him in a gesture so hilariously impotent that Marco is seized with the urge to kiss his stupid, sulky face. “I brought you an earl grey latte!” Jean says, outraged. “Out of the goodness of my heart, I bring you hot beverages and this is how you repay me!”

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to pin this one on me.” Marco scoops up his drink, balancing it atop the pile of books. “I’m as appalled as they are, frankly.”

“You’re an ass.”

“Yours looks pretty fine today, by the way.”

He’s utterly disarmed by that, and Marco feels a flush of happiness at the way Jean’s speechless indignation quickly evolves into a small, almost shy smile. For all his bluster, he’s still a sucker for a compliment. Maybe today isn’t so bad, Marco thinks, examining the somewhat eclectic selection of books he’s picked up – _The Story Of Tea, Cooking With Coolio, 100 Things To Do With Yogurt_. Maybe it might actually turn out to be a good day after all.

*

Jean manages not to bitch at all on the drive to Connie and Sasha’s, which is surely some kind of record. It’s been a while since Marco set foot inside their apartment, but it’s pretty much exactly as he remembered – absolute chaos, a riot of movie posters and comic books and toys. A knee-high Gundam of some description stands beside a stone Buddha in the hallway, bedecked in beanie hats of various types and colours. Jean enters with some trepidation, as though he’s afraid something might leap out and bite him. His fears are probably not unfounded; there’s a stack of empty pizza boxes in the hallway that looks like it could very well be harbouring some hitherto unknown pepperoni-based lifeform.

As promised, the coffee table is crammed with KFC boxes – at least two family buckets, popcorn chicken, enough fries to feed a small army – and already Sasha is making short work of her third corn cob. “Come in!” she says, waving her arm. “Sofa’s all yours. Grab yourself some food, we’re about to start.”

“Hey, didn’t you guys used to have a guinea pig?” Marco asks, examining the living-room for signs of the hutch he’s sure once resided there.

Connie and Sasha exchange mildly bemused looks. “I don’t know,” Connie says. “Did we?”

 _Jesus_ , Marco thinks, shooting Jean a look of alarm. _Never let them have kids._

Jean and Marco sit on the somewhat worn-out sofa while Connie squeezes in beside Sasha in the armchair – surprisingly, they don’t look especially cramped. Jean unearths a Lannister scattercushion from underneath him and flings it aside. Marco reaches for a plate (plastic, adorned with a pirate print that suggests it’s probably intended for 8-year-olds) and notices, tucked in among the bottles of Pepsi, two tall bottles of black rum. “What’s with the hard stuff?” he asks, helping himself to some hot wings. He notices Jean hoarding all the popcorn chicken, piling it high upon his plate.

“We decided to make things even more fun,” Sasha says, smiling wickedly. “We’re going to play the X-Files drinking game. It goes like this.”

“Every time one of them starts a phone conversation with ‘it’s me’, take a shot,” Connie says. “And you take a shot…”

“…any time one of them goes off to investigate alone.”

“If they break out the flashlights.” Jeans eyes are widening with every stipulation.

“Whenever Krycek stabs someone in the back.”

“Every time Scully wears glasses.”

“And if Scully rolls her eyes, that’s a double,” Sasha finishes. “Don’t worry, Jean, we’ll prompt you. Although I’m pretty sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

“This is great and all,” Marco says, wiping chicken-grease from his hands onto a napkin. “But I’m the designated driver, so I’ll have to pass.”

“Sweet,” Connie says, fries sticking every which way from his mouth. His chin is smeared with ketchup. “More rum for us. Babe, you got the remote?”

Sasha switches the lights off, and starts the DVD up. The room settles into hushed, expectant quiet, broken only by the rustle of chicken extracted from cardboard containers. While the credits play (Jean shoots Marco an eyeroll – _so that’s what the idiot squad were ‘singing’ earlier_ ) Sasha lines up a row of rum shots.

The episodes are a random selection, and apparently chosen carefully so as to maximise the number of shots imbibed. Marco’s seen them all before, mostly – the one with the liver-eating mutant in the air ducts, the one with the black oil, the one where Scully and Mulder spend the entire episode phenomenally pissed at one another. There’s one with Scully running around in Maine chasing some kind of possessed doll, which, Marco notices, freaks Jean out more than a little – he scoots a little closer, pressing his body against Marco’s in a completely nonsexual gesture which somehow manages nonetheless to cause Marco an inconvenient and slightly painful erection. They’ll have to watch horror films more often, he muses, feeling the tickle of Jean’s hair against his neck.

Approximately once every ten minutes Connie or Sasha will yell “drink!” and thrust a shot of rum at Jean, who starts off mildly alarmed but quickly switches to cheerful, then to downright gleeful, and eventually – after Scully gets caught by Donnie Pfaster and Sasha yells “drunk!” (nobody bothers to correct her) flopping bonelessly all over Marco’s lap with a giant idiot grin plastered all over his face. He curls up like a kitten on the sofa, face pressed against Marco’s thigh (thank god he’s too drunk to notice the erection, which has persisted almost continually throughout the entire evening.) For their part, Connie and Sasha are cheerfully drunk, an entwined tangle of arms and legs as they gaze uncomprehendingly at the TV. Several drinkworthy instances occur in the following episode, but none of them are in much of a state to point it out, and Marco figures he ought to be the voice of sanity and steer them carefully _away_ from the likelihood of alcohol poisoning.

“I think we should probably go now,” Marco says, twenty minutes later. Connie and Sasha have fallen asleep – Connie resembles a tiny ammonite rolled tight in the corner, Sasha sprawled heavily across him, and one or both of them is snoring, a sound like a rusty chainsaw.

Slowly, carefully, Jean sits up. His eyes are glazed and bleary, his face a mask of pure, drunken delight. “Are you taking me home with you?”

“I guess so,” Marco says. Together, they get Jean to his feet. He’s a little shorter than Marco and has to lean up, arm wrapped tight around the other man’s shoulder. He nuzzles his face into Marco’s neck, making a sound partway between a giggle and a snort.

“Are you taking me to bed with you?” he whispers.

“You’re going to bed alright,” Marco says. Their coats are slung over the back of the chair. He helps Jean into his, swatting away the hands that reach constantly to grab at him. Jean gigglesnorts again, and Marco can’t help but smile. His boundaries completely dissolve when he’s drunk, at least around Marco. If Jean could see himself now – tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in intense concentration as he battles with the zipper on his coat – he’d probably freak the hell out. A surge of something (affection? Lust? Love?) warms him from the inside, sending sparks through each individual nerve ending. This man is his. This beautiful, frustrating, hilarious idiot is his. How the hell did that happen? What strange meeting of the gods conspired to provide him with someone this amazing? Someone who makes his life better just by being in it. Someone who is currently pawing clumsily at Marco’s chest in what might be affection, or might just be a drunken twitch.

“You’re pretty,” Jean says.

Marco doesn’t know how he gets Jean in the car. He doesn’t know how he gets home – there’s a lot of sharp braking and frustrated swatting at Jean as he tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, undo Marco’s fly because, as Jean so eloquently puts it, “I neeeed to suck your dick”. And then Marco has to explain, as patient as a parent explaining why we don’t stick our fingers in the blender, why getting one’s dick sucked while driving is a universally terrible idea that is almost certain to end in a violent, embarrassing death.

“But I _need_ to,” Jean whines.

“I don’t want to die with my pants down and your face in my crotch,” Marco says.

“Sounds like a good way to go, if you ask me,” Jean says, a little peeved.

He’s no better when Marco does eventually wrestle him from the car and into the house. He’s surprisingly aggressive in his affections, which Marco is normally very appreciative of, and it’s extremely difficult to rebuff his advances when he’s nipping at Marco’s neck and grabbing his ass and _jesus fucking christ_ doing that thing with his tongue and the ear and…gently, Marco extricates Jean, holding him at arm’s length like an overaffectionate puppy, and he’s flushed and breathless and beautiful. This is one of the most difficult things Marco has ever done in his life, not least because his dick is very insistent that he’s making the wrong decision.

“Jean,” he says, calmly. “You’re very drunk.”

“M’not,” Jean says.

“You’ve got your shoes on the wrong feet and your coat on inside-out.”

“Connie’s house is dark.”

“Listen.” He puts his hands on Jean’s shoulders, steering him towards the bedroom. He half expects Jean to let out a little whoop of joy at the sight of Marco’s bed but he doesn’t really seem to comprehend what he’s actually looking at. Which is probably a good thing, because Marco hasn’t tidied for days, and a small colony of dirty socks has formed on the floor, possibly plotting world domination. “Tomorrow, Ymir and Christa are coming over to talk wedding plans…”

Jean groans theatrically. “Can’t you tell them I’m dead?”

“…but once they’re gone, we’ve got the whole afternoon to ourselves. And we can do what we like, okay?” Marco doesn’t think it’s best to mention the blazing hangover Jean’s likely to have, or the fact that he’ll like be in no fit state to do anything more than lounge in bed, complaining about how his brain is going to leak out of his ears. Because finally, Jean is looking thoughtful about the whole thing, and there’s a hint of tiredness about the droop of his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. It’s about time, Marco thinks, as he lets Jean fumble with his clothes. It’s not as though he doesn’t appreciate Jean’s sudden, almost violent need for sex – he appreciates it very, very much. But there’s something distinctly uncomfortable about doing this while Jean is really too drunk to fully comprehend what it is they’re actually doing. And Marco knows they’d probably wake in the morning, and he’d recount the events in detail, and Jean would probably blush and mutter but grin, in that sweet, sheepish way of his. But he doesn’t want that. He wants Jean to choose. He always wants Jean to choose.

He looks over. Jean is frozen in the middle of removing his sweater. The sleeves are pulled high over his head, his face lost in a puddle of blue fabric. Sighing, Marco gently extracts the offending article, and Jean smiles, his hair a wild mess, his trousers pooled around his ankles, shoes still firmly attached to his feet. “You’re such an idiot,” Marco says, with no small degree of affection, and helps him out of his clothes, into the bed, where he crawls in beside Jean. Immediately, Jean attaches himself to Marco, koala-like, and Marco doesn’t push him away.

Jean’s head nestles against Marco’s chest, his face warm and flushed with alcohol. He smells like rum, sweet and spicy. Marco presses his face atop Jean’s head, arms wrapped tight around him, and they lay like that a while. The moment is long, and quiet, and utterly perfect, and broken only by a sudden fit of giggles which reverberates through Marco.

“What’s funny?” he asks.

“Her name was Bambi,” Jean says. Marco can feel him smiling, feel the light hitching of his chest as his giggles subside. God, he thinks, running a hand across Jean’s bare back, feeling the topography of his lean musculature, he’s going to have such a sore head in the morning. Connie and Sasha too. And inevitably it will be Marco who’ll have to make him breakfast, bring him endless cups of tea and generally act the nursemaid, but he doesn’t mind. Because he knows Jean would do it for him too. _Has_ done it for him, several times, not that Marco deserved any of it (he’s not very good at heeding Jean’s warnings, and Jean’s insufferably, adorably smug expression the next morning is perhaps more effective punishment than any headache.) He holds Jean against him, feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest and the reassuring, wonderful solidity of him, and he still can’t quite believe that this is a thing that’s happened – the two of them, curled up in bed, peaceful and happy and together.

“Hey Marco?” Jean’s voice, low and sleepy, drags Marco from the very precipice of sleep.

“Mhm?”

“Scully’s pretty hot.”

Marco laughs. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a kiss against Jean’s forehead. “She is, isn’t she?”

“You’re the Scully in this relationship, okay?”

“How’d you figure?”

“’Cause you’re pretty hot.”

“But you’re shorter, and more sarcastic. And you’d pull off shoulderpads better than I would.”

There’s a pause, as though Jean is actually considering this. “I guess so,” he says, after a time. And then: “Don’t let me get abducted by aliens, ‘kay? I don’t want them to put things in my brain.”

“I won’t,” Marco says.

“And don’t let that guy with the arms eat my liver.”

“Jean, go to sleep.”

He shifts in Marco’s arms, arching in such a way that his thigh brushes ever-so-slightly against Marco’s groin, and well, there goes _that_ lovely, chaste moment. “Okay,” Jean mumbles, apparently satisfied that he won’t be spirited away by little grey men in the night, or kidnapped by a liver-eating mutant. Safe in Marco’s arms from whatever truth might be out there.


End file.
